It's a dual transformation: this valley into a lake, this person into another version of themselves. Neither are permanent but for just a few breaths on this clear, sunny morning I remember they don't have to be.

We crest the hill, or what passes for one is West Texas, and thousands of red lights blink in utter synchrony.

It is said the bad things come in threes, but it turns out the good ones do too. A lesson well learned on a party cloudy January day.

Was it your fault? What befell her? Daughter, wife, teacher, or mother? How long ago? What could you not say? Did she ever see her namesake? How often do you think of her? And what about the houseplants?